Unconditional
by fite.me
Summary: Love is duty. Love is sacrifice. Sometimes, love is pain.


**I don't own anything. At all.**

 **There are veeeery few direct quotes in this story. If I directly quote a character (dialogue), it's going to be in italics.**

* * *

There was a time when Frederick was not so wary—when he was young, and talented, and serious, and he was entrusted with the valuable task of protecting the prince and young princess.

 _Can you do that for me?_

Her voice had been soft, but figure commanding. The floor was cold as he knelt, eyes on the floor, and his insignificance—the weight of his inadequacy, under the scrutiny of her soft gaze, it was _torture_. But he was a slave to her desires and whims because they were selfless and pure and _he would do anything for her_.

So the _I can't_ catches at the back of his throat as he looks at the cool grey stone and he knows that he can't refuse her. So he murmurs that he would do it gladly for her, and it's true, and he lifts his eyes to see that her lips are upturned in that soft smile and her eyes are so very sad. And he wishes that just for one instant, the grief would lift from her eyes.

The fantasy is seared into his eyelids, so achingly clear that surely it has to be a prediction of the future—surely, that future is possible. But perhaps he is truly right, and there is no future for the two of them where he can hold her in his arms. The gap between their stations, the burden of her responsibility that he can never shoulder for her... It divides them, perhaps permanently.

It doesn't matter. He wants her—he craves her touch, her approval, her acceptance. He desires her in the most intimate ways that a man can hunger for a woman, and the possibility of her love stirs parts of him so deep that it has altered him irrevocably. And yet, all of that is _nothing_ because more than anything he wants her to be happy.

To love is to sacrifice. He would do anything to make her happy.

It is true—he longs to lift some of her burden, but he knows that she will deny his attempts. It is why she is so sad—because she loves all and yet is isolated by her duty and her loneliness is her grief. So she must rely on him to protect her loved ones but he is weak and he cannot imagine why he of all people should be the ones to help her.

* * *

Frederick is not a handsome man. He has heard many a stray comment on his stern exterior and serious manner and he knows that he is far from desirable. He is solitary and plain. Even worse, many find his habits tedious and irritating. It does not bother him because he does not live the way he does for another's approval—he lives to serve, to protect. And if that makes him dull company, so be it. At least they will be safe.

It has been long since he last saw the queen. He misses her—misses seeing her smile, sad as it was, because it was always a gesture of love and a part of her and he loves all of her. But he sees her every day in the compassion of Lissa and the dedication of Chrom and he nearly bursts with pride, and he knows that the pride he feels doe them is shared by the queen. It is the only connection between them these days, it feels.

They return from another expedition, directed by an impulsive prince too brave for his own good, just in time for a ball, and Frederick almost grimaces along with the prince. But he remains stoic and admonishes the prince when he groans and encourages him. Chrom has his sister's heart—as always, he shoulders it and smiles though it is clear he dreads the coming event.

Lissa is sweet—so very determined to act like a lady. She demands he drills her dancing and manners and they are truly exquisite, though perhaps he is biased; he finds her clumsiness endearing and proof of her genuine desire to improve and to better serve her people.

And the night of the ball arrives, and he finds himself pressed against the wall amongst a wall of spectators as the noblemen begin to congregate and pair up for the first dance, and his heart is in his throat because Emmeryn—she looks _exquisite_ , so lovely and sweet as she smiles at her guests.

Then a dashing foreign dignitary takes her hand and Emmeryn graciously accepts and his stomach falls to his toes as the gossiping whispers swirl in his ears—that she is beautiful tonight and that the man is very handsome, and self consciousness rises like a hurricane within him when the compliments of the stranger's daring smile and complicated past and infectious personality echo in his mind.

It occurs to Frederick then that all he can offer Emmeryn is his devotion; he is not charming. On the contrary, he is typically annoying. He is not interesting—he is very predictable, very dull, and very anxious. Frederick grimaces before he can catch himself, and then, he realizes he does not care if someone sees... His heart sinks even lower. Because no one is watching him anyway.

Insecurity is a damning trait. He squares his shoulders and smooths his face over. His eyes trail the crowd, looking for any lady appearing to be lonely or out of place because he is here not for himself but to serve others, and if he can aid someone by providing them with some small measure of comfort by asking them to dance, though he may be irritating and overly stern and dull, he will do what he can.

Frederick searches for the quiet, the lonely, and the obscure. The night passes swiftly, spent in small talk perhaps too proper to be engaging, but every lady he parts with is smiling and he takes pleasure in that.

And suddenly, the lady in front of him is Emmeryn, and he is so stunned for a moment that he can't speak—and she cocks her head slightly and flashes that soft, slight smile, and she asks him to dance. He's _inflamed_ by embarrassment that she had to ask, shattering protocol because the sight of her beauty stole his composure. He offers a hand immediately, unable to hide his grimace, and she giggles.

He almost gapes at her, he is so shocked. She rarely laughs. But she has just laughed... at _him—_? His vision clears after his panic, and he sees her smiling up at him through her lashes, and with a start he realizes they haven't begun to dance, even as everyone moves around them. Heat creeps up his neck and burns in his ears. He clears his throat and begins to lead, and her smile doesn't waver.

His composure is wrecked. She asks him in soft tones how he is, how he's enjoyed himself—and it's completely throwing him because they are the inquiries of a friend and not those so common between knight and his superiors. He is not used to fumbling; proper etiquette is ingrained into him. He feels vulnerable—do people truly crave such casual intimacy?

Abruptly, he begins to clam up. He feels like an impostor. All night, in some small measure, he has attempted to emulate the queen herself but he now understands that he has fallen miserably short. The Queen befriends all she engages. He can merely pretend to. His attempts at socialization are only cheap in comparison.

The dance ends, and Frederick is glad because he no longer feels like dancing. His arms feel leaden as they fall from her slim waist, and woodenly he thanks her for the dance. Through a daze of misery, he vaguely notices worry in her eyes, but for once, he is too sickened by himself, too self absorbed, to properly disguise his distress. He wants to escape, not linger and pretend.

In this moment, he wants to feel, even if that means parting from those he's sworn to protect... Because being around them requires a mask so heavy that he often forgets what lies underneath.

Did the mask _erase_ what once was, who he could have been? Surely, once upon a time, Frederick had been a different man before the weight of responsibility was placed on his shoulders.

He turns to leave, not truly observing her—that was his first mistake. Because as he turns to leave, eyes searching for an exit to escape, two small, soft hands grip one of his. Frederick turns quickly, eyes wide, and Emmeryn is biting her lip.

 _Dance with me again?_

It is _so very improper_. . . . When has he ever been able to deny a direct request from her majesty? Frederick nods mutely, pulling her into his arms at the usual modest distance, drinking in the sight of her because this is the first time he's ever viewed her in this light. The gap between them has always been devastating but he has never once attempted to breach it because it would be impossibly unfair to ask that of her, with all of the worries she already carried.

Could she be trusted to maintain the distance that duty required, or would that have to fall to him...? But was he even _capable_? Frederick was very, very doubtful.

 _Milady, this is very improper._

 _How so?_ She challenges, voice soft but eyes flashing. _This is a dance between two very old friends. It simply stretches through a few songs_.

Frederick's brow furrows and he _loves_ her for being so much braver than him, for wanting things beyond what should have been allowed, and for how incredibly _wonderful_ it made her as a result. It was that fierce determination that led her to defy even protocol and propriety in order to attain what she desired—and all she ever desired was the freedom to bless others with compassion and love. It wasn't very queenly. It was godly. Unsightly to most noblemen. She didn't care.

An uncontrollable smile melts away his frown, and he cannot stop it though it is _highly_ inappropriate to reveal himself to not just her but to this entire room of spectators, yet despite it all he cannot help himself. In this moment, he cannot deny himself the simple pleasure of his ability to smile at her.

He wants to say _I love you_. Instead, he nods slowly and agrees. She asks him if he is alright, and he finds himself assuring her immediately—because he is _beyond_ fine. Yes, he is not desirable, typically anxious and perhaps boring, but he is not beyond even her love, and he will take it in whatever form he can get it. Already, it is far beyond what he ever hoped for.

* * *

He dreams one night that Emmeryn comes to him in his room, haphazard and passionate and so breathtakingly _selfish_ that the joy he experiences in retaliation is explosive. And they're a mess of limbs on his bed shortly thereafter, engaging in acts normally Frederick would consider absolutely abhorrent considering the situation, but when he jerks awake, he feels a sharp pang of longing, heavy like iron grief.

As he stares up at his ceiling, he understands that he was wrong. Happiness would never be protecting those she loved but never protecting _her_. It was not distance, it was not propriety, it was not adherence. _She_ was happiness. And though he was not unhappy, though he was perhaps content with his lot in life, he was by no means _happy_ because she was not his. She was alone, like he was.

The heels of his hands press into his eyes as he imagines another life—one where such selfish acts in the dream as their being _together_ are possible, but when he wakes the next morning he buries the dream as he buries all the others, the epiphany lost somewhere in between because it is painful to hold onto. Love is duty. Love is sacrifice. Sometimes, love is pain.

* * *

One night, he is summoned to her rooms, and it confuses him and terrifies him because surely something must deeply bother the Queen if she asks for him at such a strange hour. The last time she did such a thing calls back memories of cold stone against his knees and his eyes on the floor and his searing inadequacy burning through him. Was she suddenly seized with concern for her siblings? If so, he would do all in his power to assure her that they were fine, and that they would continue to be so. Princess Lissa was a fine lady, following in her sister's footsteps, and the Prince, though seemingly more comfortable on the road playing hero for the citizens of Ylisse than actually tending to legal matters in the throne room, embraced his birthright with admirable determination and resolution. They were strong. She had nothing to fear.

When he arrived at her private chambers, Emmeryn was shockingly disheveled, dressed in a robe over her nightgown, and Frederick berated himself silently for lingering on her body. And then, to his shock, she _dismissed his escort_ , inviting him into her room _alone_.

He wanted to ask what was wrong, why she looked so tired and drawn and anxious, why she had called _him_ , but before he could ask, she sank to her knees. Before his eyes, the mask of Queen receded and all that was left was the girl inside, _Emmeryn_ , the girl he had always suspected to be within but whom he had never truly experienced.

Emmeryn was cowering on the floor of her room. And Frederick did not hesitate. He sank down beside her, tipping her face up to look at him so that he could study her and understand her pain. It was dizzying and heady because Frederick the Knight, he was _inadequate_ and this was _improper_ and truly, he was nothing—he could never help the Queen. But simply Frederick? He could comfort Emmeryn, just Emmeryn, because that was all he had _ever_ wanted. As merely a man, and she merely a woman, he could be everything she needed.

In broken tones, without further prompting beyond a mere _look_ , she explained that a marriage appeared imminent. That she felt trapped. And then, tears leaking down her beautiful face, she confessed that of all the things she was to sacrifice, she hadn't wanted to sacrifice her _heart_.

Was it possible for ones heart to break for another? Desperately, Frederick sought to ease her pain as she talked.

 _I love my people. But I also love a man so intimately that, Frederick, it feels as if it may tear me apart._ She sobbed into his shirt, clinging there, and Frederick was glad that she could not see his face for it has turned stony. Such a look would have given him away immediately, and she would have been concerned, even amidst her own pain.

But it was silly that her love should cause him pain when he had known all along that he was not to her what she was to him. It was jarring, however, to feel his dreams shatter. Never again could he dream of her in his arms because it would be insulting lies, pathetic pining, because she truly belonged to another.

 _Your majesty_ , he murmured. _You are queen... And I believe that if there is any matter that you are permitted to be selfish in, it is the matter of love._

She was quiet a long while, breathing softly against him, and it was wrong but he found himself memorizing the feel of her in his arms because he knew this would never happen again.

 _He would never_ , Emmeryn laughed bitterly. It jolted Frederick from his thoughts and he frowned because he could not comprehend her words. _He's so unfailingly selfless. He could never agree to be selfish with me_.

His heart throbbed painfully. The tenor of her words were too similar to his secret thoughts of late—how pathetic and yet fitting that his daring to dream was now resulting in such exquisite pain. _My lady, if he were not willing to do anything for you, he is not worthy of your love_. His words would provide no true comfort, he knew—Emmeryn could not turn her love for this man off. But maybe... maybe his assurance could mean something, ease some of the ache...?

 _Frederick_... Emmeryn leaned back and looked into his eyes. She was close, so very close, and he was exposed to her eyes because he couldn't hide anything from her. She smoothed his hair back, and his back stiffened.

That was _unacceptable_. She should not touch him like that—it made his heart throb and pound and his stomach squirm and if she loved another man, such a gesture was surely unfaithful to him. Perhaps she thought it a friendly gesture, and if so, he would bare it, but—

 _Would you do anything for me?_

He cannot make sense of the conversation anymore. So he answers with helpless honesty. _Anything, your majesty._

So she leans in and her lips brush his ear as she whispers, _Marry me._

* * *

The sight of Frederick bowed on the floor, broad shoulders heavy under the weight of the responsibility she has just placed upon him—it brings bile to her throat and makes her stomach churn. But when he looks up, he is as composed as ever, and she can see nothing of reluctance or reticence. He is simply Frederick, devoted and capable and a bitter smile springs to her lips because she is using him. She uses them all. He deserves better than this.

But she is grateful—so _very grateful_ to him, because if there is any person she desires to watch after her loved ones, it is him. It is selfish that she has chosen him above all others. She prays he will forgive her.

* * *

It is hard being parted from her siblings for so long—for more reasons than she dares not allow herself to truly dwell on. They allow the doubts to grow too oppressive, and Emmeryn cannot allow doubt to consume her. She must be strong, and that means not _allowing_ herself to be weak.

Yet, she cannot deny the relief she feels upon seeing his face once more, as careful and controlled and handsome as ever. She cannot deny that with him, he brings comfort and safety and his very presence relaxes her. He has always believed in her as very few ever have, unwavering and selfless.

She wonders sometimes if he is even a man, or if he is consumed entirely by duty. Does he notice the way her hair frames her face, or how her dresses drape her body, or does he see her only as the Queen? Even worse: does he see only the child straining under the burdens of a kingdom, or the woman she has striven to become?

Selfishly, perhaps vainly, she is glad that he is going to be there for the coming ball because she wants to feel his eyes on her, and she wants to know if she can make his eyes widen and his face to flush, if she has that ability, or if the ties between them are platonic or perhaps are even more restricted.

When the night arrives, however, she is disappointed because Frederick is as in character as ever. He barely looks at her, she notes with frustration, and she hates herself for being so petty, but it's difficult, watching him socialize with such purpose and dance with seemingly every girl but her. She can see the way they look at him—all struck by his stunning control, his impeccable manners, his underlying kindness. And, of course, he's very handsome...

It's frustrating. She doesn't like being like this. But as the night passes in the arms of many men but none being the ones she desires, she finally impulsively asks for a dance.

It throws him—and she _likes_ that. At last, she chips at his ironclad control because she knows that on his own, he will never speak to her tonight, and that is _unacceptable_. It is sick, the satisfaction and happiness she retains from making him blush and freeze—

But suddenly, it all backfires. He is unsure of himself, skittish, and then before her eyes shuts down entirely. He is eager to escape her, and she wonders how she's managed to hurt him when all she's done is try to befriend him. Is it wrong to want to be closer to him? He murmurs his goodbyes and she doesn't think—she merely reacts on instinct. As he turns, she grabs his hand.

She _cannot_ let him go like that—not when he is so clearly distressed and perhaps it is her fault and he is her _friend_. And maybe she is inadequate, chained under these impossible expectations, and it is true that she is not free to love as freely as she wishes she could, that she cannot help others as much as she so desperately wishes, but for Frederick, she will break every rule she has to in order to ensure he is okay.

She is vulnerable, anxious. He is shocked. She is insistent. And he... he _melts_. And Frederick the Wary's stern expression gives way to the most _breathtakingly handsome smile_ she has ever seen and she turns to mush in his arms. She knows that such a smile was not given to another girl all night, and the satisfaction is immense because such an unguarded smile makes loving him worth it, a hundred times over.

* * *

In her dreams, they are together. He holds her, and she leans on him, and his strength is hers and hers is his. They share everything in her most beautiful dreams—stories and thoughts and ideas, and there is no doubt. Always, she belongs to him, but when asleep he is hers as well. While he is away, the dreams make her sacrifice tolerable, but with his presence in the castle, the dreams are almost torture. His proximity remind her that her dreams are dull displacements for her true feelings and they cannot satisfy her—not even close.

She thought she could live with that, if it meant he would be safe, and happy. Emmeryn was used to denying herself things she wanted in the first place—the sins of many hung over her head to be answered for, after all. If she was to heal the festering wounds of hatred in her country, she could not afford to be selfish and turn others away. Denying herself was easy.

But it was impossible _not_ to love him. And it was impossible _not_ to want him. And even though Emmeryn hated herself for it, she knew it was only a matter of time before she snapped.

* * *

It's at night when the pressure gets to her—when she begins to cry and the desolation of her situation overwhelms her and like a child, her fear consumes her. And so selfishly, she asks for the one man who always manages to ensure she feels absolutely safe. He arrives disheveled and obviously worried and she sends away the guard and the discouragement and hopelessness, it crashes over her like the waves of the ocean and she falls to her knees.

She is not a Queen. She's nothing, really—just a girl.

But when he crouches beside her and pulls her into his arms and speaks to her, his presence is the balm to her frayed nerves, and even though it feels like she's breaking, it doesn't really matter now because _he's_ here and she knows he can pick up the pieces and it's dizzying and heady because it's so _unbelievably nice_ being with someone who makes her feel stronger instead of weaker.

And it's selfish, so terribly selfish. She has no right to love him as she does.

As he speaks and she listens, the idea takes root with frightening clarity. It is a terrible thought, but she cannot shake it, and it is the pinnacle of selfishness—unknowingly, he encourages her, and as she looks into his eyes, she understands that he is duty bound to his core and that he will do _anything_ for her. And that if she commands it, he will not say no—even if doing what she asks forces him to sacrifice his heart when the thought of doing the same has brought her to this point of desperation.

She _cannot_ ask him this. She _should not_. It would be cruel, impossibly selfish—even worse, it would be painful and pathetic and sick. But honeyed words slip from his lips so easily, and he is so handsome, it almost breaks her heart. She _loves_ him, and she is so tired of weathering the storm alone. It is so tempting, so very tempting, because she knows that he will say yes before she even has to ask.

She clings to him and hates herself, but inhaling his scent and feeling the strength of his arms around her and his heartbeat against her cheek and his words in her ears... Suddenly, her ears prick and she actually _feels_ his heart, and it is not the steady pulse she imagined he would have. It is fast and uneven and... His voice is as controlled as ever, but the speed of his heart, he cannot control it as easily. Emmeryn pulls away with tears cooling on her cheeks as she looks at the man she loves in wonder.

He is not Frederick the Knight in this instant. He is a man, so strong and so _good_ that it is hard to believe that he is truly so untarnished by the painful hardships of this life. And all along, she has thought that her love, it was alone, singular, but what if there were parts of this good, good man that she has barely uncovered? His eyes are like his pulse—wild and uneven and perhaps afraid but it strikes her that he looks terribly brave despite the pain.

He looks like he is at her mercy.

 _Frederick_... She brushes his hair out of his face, the way she's desired to do a thousand times before, and she measures his reaction and she does not miss the way his eyes widen and the way his back stiffens and he seems so conflicted, so helpless... _Would you do anything for me?_

He cannot look away from her eyes. _Anything, your majesty._

Emmeryn is not strong. She breaks—and truly, she should have understood the inevitability all along. She has never been able to stop herself from loving another. _Marry me._

* * *

Frederick jerks back because her question makes no sense and he needs to see her face to understand why such a cruel joke would pass through her lips. He's halfway to a nonsensical apology when the look in her eyes stops him—wild but gentle, desperate but molten love and she is so _unguarded_ , so _Emmeryn_ , and his eyes drink in the sight desperately because there is so much more to her than the roles she fills and he's never seen her so purely herself.

 _This man_ , he says roughly, voice infused more passion than he has ever dared to allow before. _This man that you love—did you mean me?_

The pain in her eyes, it is familiar not because he has seen it in her eyes before because he hasn't. She has never allowed him to see this before. He recognizes it because it is identical to the agony he has experienced himself through these long, lonely years of loving her without permission to act on them. _Yes_.

 _You would be selfish for_ me _?_ He demands.

 _Does that disappoint you?_ She whispers.

The vulnerability, the insecurity of it—it jolts him and shocks him and _disgusts_ him because she could not be more grossly incorrect. _Emmeryn,_ his voice comes out choked with emotion, _it makes me so beyond joyful that I can scarcely believe I'm not dreaming... Emmeryn, I fear I may wake at any moment._

 _I love you_ , Emmeryn whispered.

Frederick kissed her.

He kissed the queen of Ylisse as if he were not her loyal servant but as if they were simply man and woman; all remaining ties of station and class melting away in the face of his sudden determination to convince her that he loved her beyond any call of duty could ever account for. When he pulled back, she was wide eyed and flushed and roughly, the words came without hesitation. _I love you._ They were _physical relief_ , like his smile at the ball so many moons ago—telling her was _peace_. And her reaction—a sharp exhale, a radiant smile, her fingertips on his cheeks, and then a gentle kiss to his lips... It was _divine_.

 _Frederick_ , she whispers against his lips with her eyes still shut and her lips still tugged into an almost dreamy smile. _You never answered my question._

 _Yes_ , he responds without hesitation, pressing his lips lingeringly onto hers before retracting. _Yes, Emmeryn, though I recall it wasn't much of a question so much as a command..._

She laughs breathlessly. _I suppose this isn't very proper,_ she murmurs.

 _Indeed,_ he is unable to stop himself from running his thumb over her lips. _It is highly inappropriate for us to be unchaperoned._ It is impossible not to notice the way she shudders under his touch.

 _Thank you, Frederick,_ her eyes open, stealing his breath and he wonders if she will always be this rawly _Emmeryn_ when they are together or if this will be a rare occurrence. He prays not.

 _I would do anything for you, my Queen_ , he murmurs, hand sliding down her arm to her wrist, bringing it to his lips and pressed them against her hand lingeringly without breaking the connection of her eyes. It is intoxicating— _she_ is intoxicating.

 _I know_ , she whispers.

* * *

And it's funny, the way that life can blossom and glow with joy and how every aspect of Frederick's life could change so quickly. The life of a Knight is so very different from that of a King, and he endeavors endlessly to become equal to that of Emmeryn; he is lacking in so much, but Emmeryn is patient, and never once does she doubt him or even seem to truly _notice_ his inadequacy.

The wedding is only a week away when Chrom and Lissa stumble across a strange man in a field who has no memory of his past. . . .


End file.
